Shattered Lives (Flynn Family Saga Book 1) (5 page)

Shadow smiled and nodded back.  Then, he led the way
into the valley.  Together, they felled the first tree.

*  *  *

Two years later, Eagle Heart and Alexander Ridgeton
returned to the valley.  Eagle Heart smiled with pride when he saw the cabin he
and Ridgeton had built.  The cabin nestled next to a tall pine.  There was a
lean-to for the horses and a small corral.  The two men rode into the valley
and dismounted, almost in unison.  They seldom spoke now.  They had seen both
beauty and sorrow together, both of which were too great for words.

Eagle Heart swatted the rump of his pony and let him
graze freely.  Ridgeton folded his arms on the top rail of the fence and
watched as the two horses frisked in the crisp March air.

“We’ll have to go to Leavenworth for supplies soon,”
Ridgeton said reluctantly.

Eagle Heart nodded.  He, too, was loathe to return
to the white world after the vast silence of the wild.

They spent the night in the cabin, and in the
morning, they rode toward Fort Leavenworth.  Just outside the stockade,
Ridgeton laid a hand on the bridle of Eagle Heart’s pony.  “Inside the
stockade, your name is Flynn.”

Eagle Heart nodded.

The two men rode through the stockade gate.

“I tell you, there’s gonna be a war.”  The private’s
voice had a southern twang to it.

Flynn turned his head.  “Al?  Al Hawkins?”

“Who wants to know?”  Hawkins stuck his thumbs into
his belt.

“It’s me.  Rob.  Rob Flynn.”

“Rob!”  Hawkins ran down the steps of the porch and
stuck out his hand.  He whistled and stared up at Flynn’s chin.  “When did you
turn into a bean pole?”

Laughing, Flynn clasped Al’s hand.  “Last year.  I
just kind of shot up.  How are your folks?”

“Pa lost his job as overseer after—“  Al stopped
speaking and looked away. 

“After my father lost the plantation?”

Al nodded.  He turned back to Flynn.  “We traveled
around a lot, looking for work.  He died of cholera two years ago.”

Flynn nodded solemnly.  “I’m sorry.”

“What about your folks?”

Flynn swallowed hard.  “Both dead.  My father died
on the way out here.  My mother died two years ago.”

Al sighed.  “I’m sorry.  Listen.  Let me buy you a
drink and we’ll talk a little treason.”

“Treason?”

Al nodded.  “Yup.  If it does come to war, I’ll be
fighting for the south.  What about you?”

Flynn looked westward, toward the place where the
soldiers burned his village.  He looked back at Al and nodded.

*  *  *

On the way back to the cabin, Flynn was unusually
silent.

Ridgeton waited until they were inside.  “Penny for
your thoughts.”

Flynn sighed.  “Do you think it will come to war?”

Ridgeton hesitated.  Then, he nodded.  “It’s been
coming almost since the beginning.  John Adams wanted to abolish slavery when
they wrote the constitution.”

Flynn blinked.  “How do you know that?”

Ridgeton grinned.  “My grandfather was a delegate to
the Second Continental Congress.”  His grin faded.  “My father fought in the
Revolution.  He lost three toes when the Continental Army wintered in Valley
Forge.  That didn’t stop me, though.  I fought in Mexican-American War, all
filled with idealism.”

“What happened to change your mind about war?”

“War, son.  That’s what happened.  I saw things, did
things...”  His voice trailed off, and he shuddered.

Flynn looked out of the window.  He watched as the
sun set over the western rim of the valley.  “I still see the village.  At
night.  When I close my eyes,” he said in Lakota.

“And I still see the dead inside the walls of the Alamo.” 
Ridgeton sighed.  “Well, the South hasn’t declared war yet.  Maybe President
Lincoln will back down.  Or at least compromise.”

Flynn nodded.  But a part of him hoped that war
would
come.  A part of him hoped he would have a chance to fight the men in blue
uniforms who murdered his people.

That night, he could not sleep.  He went to the
shelves he had built for Ridgeton’s books.  He took down a battered copy of
Shakespeare’s
Henry VI
and began to read.

*  *  *

Spring came, and the two men rode to Fort Leavenworth. 
Ridgeton bought the latest newspaper.

“Confederate Army seizes Fort Sumter!” the headline
read.

Flynn snatched the paper from Ridgeton’s hands and
read the article.  The South, it seemed, had the superior Army.

“Rob?”  Ridgeton’s quiet voice broke through the
storm of emotion that swirled inside Flynn.

Flynn looked away from the paper.  “Yes sir?”

“May I have my newspaper back?”

“Sorry, sir.”  Flynn felt his face redden.  He
handed it back.

A week passed, and Flynn could not sleep.  Ridgeton
talked about the places he wanted to see on this trip, but he hardly listened. 
“And in August, we’ll stop at the moon.”

“Um hm,” Flynn replied.

“Son?”  Ridgeton laid his hand on Flynn’s shoulder.

Flynn’s head jerked up.  “Sorry?”

Ridgeton smiled sadly.  “You haven’t heard a word I
said, have you?”

Flynn sighed and shook his head.

Ridgeton’s smile faded.  He walked to the window and
looked out.  “Well, I guess every young man has to learn about war for himself.” 
He turned back.  “I’ll help you pack.”

Flynn felt tears burn his eyes.  “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me until you get home safe and sound.”

Flynn nodded, but he hardly heard the words.  He
kept thinking about the day he topped the rise and saw the bodies of his
friends and family.

*  *  *

On the morning of July 20, 1861, nine days before his seventeenth birthday, Flynn lay on his belly on the side of a Matthews
Hill overlooking the Stone Bridge.  His rifle felt heavy and cold in his hand. 
Fear made his palms slippery with sweat.  He saw the ranks of the Union
soldiers advancing toward him.

He hadn’t been this scared since his first day at
the Lewisburg Academy.

Colonel Evans walked down the line.  He stopped
beside each man.  “How ya doin’, son?”

Flynn licked his dry lips.  “Just fine, sir.”

Evans regarded him solemnly.  “Well, I’m so scared
that I can’t spit.”

Flynn swallowed hard.  “Me too, sir.”

He clapped Flynn on the shoulder.  “I’ve seen you
shoot in target practice, son.  You’ll do fine.  Just pretend they’re a bunch
of blue turkeys, and your family’s hungry.”

Flynn laughed in spite of his fear.  “Yes sir.”

Evans moved on.

Flynn saw the ranks of the Union soldiers advancing
toward him and his gut tightened.  Cannonballs whined overhead.  The sound
grated on Flynn’s nerves, but he held his ground.  When Colonel Evans gave the
order, he fired.  He saw men fall and wondered if one of them bore his bullet. 
Then, the Yankees returned fire, and he was too busy reloading and firing to
worry about it.

The line of Yankees kept on coming.  There were too
many of them.  Fear seeped into him like cold, dirty water, and he shivered.

Then, the order came to retreat.

Only it wasn’t a retreat.  It was a rout.  Flynn saw
the terror in the other soldiers’ eyes, some of them even younger than he was. 
For the first time in his life, he was grateful for his training at Lewisburg. 
He drew a deep breath.  “All right, men.  Fall in.  Orderly march.  Forward,
hut.”

“Forward, hell.  We’re runnin’ away!”

“No talking in the ranks, soldier!”  Flynn’s voice
cracked like a rifle shot above the din of firing and the screams of the
wounded.  He turned and scowled at the speaker, a brown-haired boy with bad
teeth, not much older than Flynn was.

“Yes suh!”  The boy saluted and fell into line.

Flynn led his ragtag squad toward Henry Hill House. 
There, they regrouped and joined Colonel Evans.  Flynn lay on his belly once
more.  A young Union soldier came over the embankment.  His eyes were blue, and
his hair was blond, and for a moment, Flynn thought it was Timmy.  Then, he saw
the uniform.

He fired.

The boy looked surprised as he fell backward.

Everything seemed to stop.  Flynn stared at the boy
he had killed, and his lust for revenge withered like grass in August.  The boy’s
body rolled slowly down the hill.  Flynn’s hands shook as he reloaded his
rifle.

The Yankees kept coming, though, and in a little
while, Flynn felt like a cotton gin.  Mechanically, he loaded, fired and
reloaded again.  The tide of blue uniforms slowed and then receded.  Aided by
heavy artillery fire, Flynn and his men held the line.  By nightfall, the Union
Army was in full retreat.

The other soldiers were ecstatic.

Flynn was silent.  That night, he searched for the
body of the boy he had killed.  He found him just as the moon rose.  He knelt
beside the boy’s body.  “Forgive me,” he whispered in Lakota.  “I killed you
because your people killed my people.  Rest in peace with your ancestors.  You
fought well.”

“What kinda language is that, boy?”

Flynn turned.  The brown-haired soldier stood
behind him.  Flynn looked away.  “Lakota.”

The soldier spat into the dirt.  “You one of them
half-breeds?”

“Flynn!  Vaughn!  Get some sleep.”  The sergeant
came over the hill.

Flynn nodded.  He stood up slowly with his hand near
his pistol.  He didn’t trust the boy named Vaughn.

Vaughn grinned at him.  “We’ll finish this
conversation some other time, boy.”  He spat again.

Flynn watched the older boy until he lay down a few
yards away.  Flynn found his bedroll and lay down himself, but he lay awake a
long time, and when he finally slept, the screams of the wounded and dying
haunted his dreams for the first time.

CHAPTER
FIVE

Two years later, Flynn hunkered down in a boxcar
headed for Richmond with fifty other men slated for the Confederate prison camp
on Belle Isle.  The shackle on his right ankle chafed, but the pain seemed
distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

The train lurched to a stop, and the guards herded
them out of the boxcar and onto the platform.  Flynn looked back.  Eleven men
lay on the floor, dead.  He felt a flicker of sorrow, but he repressed it
firmly.

The guards marched them west to the river.  There,
they climbed aboard a flat barge that took them to a small island in the middle
of the James River.  Flynn shut his eyes, remembering picnics there with his
mother and father in the days before the drink took away Sean’s dignity and
love for his family.  As the sun set behind the island, the guards took them to
the gate.  Flynn walked through the gates and looked around.

Dozens of shacks filled the center of the camp.  The
smell was overpowering, excrement and rotting corpses.  He watched listlessly
as men fought over scraps of food.  He felt no desire to eat.  It was as if his
own life had drained out of him.

In the morning, he got up.  Every muscle ached, and
he was hungry.  The guards brought a little moldy bread.  Flynn wasn’t fast
enough.  A tall man with a scar running diagonally from his forehead to his
left cheekbone snatched it out of his hand.  Anger stirred feebly, but then
Flynn remembered that he didn’t really want to live.

He sat down with his back against the shack and shut
his eyes.

*  *  *

Day after day, it was the same.  Flynn ate when he
could manage to keep a little food away from the sandy-haired man and his
henchmen.  He slept when he could, when dreams of battles and betrayal didn’t
haunt him.

He endured.

His ankle became infected.  And healed.  He didn’t
care one way or the other.

The nights turned cold, and he shivered constantly. 
He dreamed of Timmy.  They huddled, side by side, as the snow fell.  The fire
went out, and there was no more wood.  Timmy fell asleep.  Flynn tried to wake
him, but his skin was cold, and he wasn’t breathing.

“No!”  Flynn woke with a start.  He heard laughter
and the sound of civilized voices.  He found himself drawn to the warmth of
those voices.  He crept silently among the shacks until he reached the edge of
the island.  Three men sat together around a fire.  One was tall and barrel-chested
with gray hair and a moustache, wearing the uniform of a Union major.  The
second was younger, not much older than Flynn, with blond hair and gray eyes. 
He wore the uniform of a lieutenant.  The third man was somewhere in between
the other two, wearing the insignia of a private.  It was hard to guess his age
because there was something wrong with his expression.  It was vague, as if he
stared at something Flynn couldn’t see.

Flynn stepped into the light of their fire and held
his hands over the flames.

“I don’t remember seeing you before, son.  Are you
new here?”  The barrel-chested man stood up and came toward him.

Flynn backed away, shaking his head.

“Easy, son.  Easy.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”  The man with the eyes of a
child smiled at him.  “Tomorrow, we’ll get presents.”

“Christmas Eve?”  Flynn’s voice was hoarse from
disuse.

The barrel-chested man nodded.  He held out a
huge hand.  “My name is Sam Anders.  This here is Ben Brewster.”

The blond man nodded.

“And I’m Hank.”  The third man stood up and held out
his hand.

Flynn stared at the man’s hand.  He didn’t want
this, not really.  He didn’t want to care about anyone ever again.  He turned
and ran off into the darkness.  He stopped at the opposite end of the island
and stared at the lights in Richmond.  Tears burned his eyes, tears he could
not shed.  The lights looked so beautiful.  A part of him wanted to return to
normal life.

A part of him was afraid he never could.

He lay down on the damp sand and shut his eyes.  He
must have slept, because the sound of fighting woke him.  He stood up.

Hank lay on the ground, curled into a fetal
position.  The man with the scar and two others kicked Hank mercilessly.  “Give
it up, Johnson.”

“No!”  Hank’s hands curled protectively around a
small chunk of meat.

Rage seared through Flynn’s veins like hot lead.  He
got up and ran to Hank’s side.  He knocked the scarred man off his feet.  He
swung hard at the second man and connected.  The second man stumbled backward. 
The third man kicked Flynn’s legs out from under him.  Flynn fell and rolled to
his feet, but not before one of the men kicked him in the chest.  Flynn heard a
rib snap, and he doubled over gasping for breath.  Slowly, the scarred man got
to his feet.  Smiling, he walked over to Flynn and struck his jaw.  Flynn fell
onto his back.  He rolled over and curled up, trying to protect his midsection,
but two of the men grasped his arms and pulled him upright.  The scarred man
punched him hard, and another rib snapped.

Then, Sam waded in.  He knocked the scarred man
sprawling and turned to the others.  Ben grabbed the arm of one of the men who
held Flynn and twisted it.  The man screamed in pain and let go of Flynn. 
Flynn rounded on the man who held his left arm.

Suddenly, it was over.

The scarred man spat blood.  “He’s a damned Reb,
Major.”

“Shut up, Brooks.”  Sam turned to Flynn.  “Is that
true?”

Flynn nodded.  “Yes sir.”

“Then what in tarnation are you doing in a
Confederate prison camp?”

Flynn sighed wearily.  “It’s a long story.”

Sam hesitated.  Then, he turned back to Brooks.  “Now
get out of here!”

Brooks and his men turned and strode away.

Sam helped Flynn stand up.  “It sounded like they
broke a rib or two.”

Flynn nodded.

Sam sighed.  “Come on back to our fire, and we’ll
fix you up.”

Flynn shook his head, but Sam ignored him.  He and
Ben helped him back to the fire.  Hank followed behind, still holding the chunk
of meat.

Flynn’s breath hissed as Sam probed his ribs.  With
a muttered curse, Sam tore an old, dirty blanket into strips.  “Take off your
shirt, son.”

“You heard Brooks.  I’m a Reb.”

“Yeah.  And you just saved Hank’s life.  Now shut up
and take off your shirt.”

“Yes sir.”  A grin tugged at Flynn’s mouth.  He
unbuttoned his shirt.

Sam wrapped the strips around his chest tightly.  It
hurt for a moment, but the bandages eased the pain.  “Now, what did you do to
end up here?”

“Well, I was court-martialed as a Union spy.”

Sam looked him in the eye.  “Were you?”

Flynn shook his head.

“Unjustly accused?”

Again, Flynn shook his head.  “No sir.  My colonel
ordered me to find a station on the Underground Railway.”  Pain rose in his
throat, threatening to choke him.

“And you found it?”

“Yes sir.”  Flynn looked away from Sam.

“And you couldn’t bring yourself to turn them in.” 
Sam voice was surprisingly gentle for such a big man, reminding Flynn of
Keeper.

Flynn looked back at him.  “No sir.  I couldn’t.”

Sam sighed.  “Why didn’t they just hang you?”

Slowly, Flynn grinned.  “My C.O. was too cheap to
waste a length of rope on a Yankee sympathizer.”

Sam grinned back.  His grin faded.  “We’ll get
through this a lot better if we stick together.”

“I’d like that, Major.”  Flynn spoke without
thinking.  Something warmed him about the Major, like the heat of from his
fire.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder.  “Good.”

Someone tugged on his sleeve.  Hank looked at him
and smiled shyly.  “Here.”  He handed Flynn the piece of meat he had been
protecting with his life.

Flynn shook his head.  “I can’t take this, Hank.”

Hank shook his head solemnly.  “It’s Christmas.”  He
smiled suddenly.  “I
told
you there would be presents!”

Flynn’s hand shook as he accepted the piece of
meat.  He nodded.  “Thanks, Hank.”  He took a bite, and as he chewed, he
realized that something had changed in the night.

He wanted to live.

Sam smiled at him.  “What’s your name, son?”

“I’m Lieutenant Robert Sean Flynn, late of the Army
of the Confederacy.”  He swept a mocking bow and winced.

Hank looked at Flynn with childlike wonder.  “Are
you really a spy?”

“No.”  Flynn looked away.

“Leave the man alone, Hank.”

The short man ducked his head.  “I’m sorry, Major.”

Sam laid his huge hand on Hank’s shoulder.  “It’s
all right, Hank.  You didn’t do anything wrong.”  He turned to Flynn.  “Hank
here took a bullet in the head.  He’s like a child, now.  I wish I could get
him out of this place.”

Flynn looked at the river.  “Has anyone tried to
swim that river?”

The Major nodded.  “A few.  But the current’s too strong.”

“One party made it, Major.”  Ben turned and stared
at the water.

Sam shook his head.  “Yeah, but Hank would never
make it.”

Hank looked ashamed.

Flynn reached across and touched the older man’s
arm.  “I’m not that good a swimmer either, Hank.”

Hank smiled at him briefly.

The Major sighed.  “That Tom Brooks has a large
following.  So we’ll have to post a guard, or our young friend here will wake
up tomorrow with his throat cut.”

Ben nodded his head.  “I’ll take the first watch,
Major.”

Sam shook his head.  “No.  I will.  You kept watch
last night and forgot to wake me.”

Ben’s face reddened slightly.  “You’ve been sick,
Major.”

Sam sighed.  “We’ve all been sick.  We’ve got to get
off this island somehow.”

Flynn stared at the river.  “If only we had a raft...”

Sam looked at him speculatively.  “You have an idea,
son?”

“Maybe.”  Flynn nodded.  “Let me think about it for
a day or two.”

Sam nodded back.  “All right, son.  Rest easy.  Ben’s
a good sentry.”

Flynn smiled.  “Thank you, Major.”  He lay down on the
damp ground.  For the first time since the Battle of Manassas, he slept without
dreaming.

*  *  *

The days passed, and Flynn began to think again.  He
spent most of his time with Sam and his men.  He learned that Ben and Hank had
served with the Major and that they planned on forming a wagon train when the
war was over.  He felt a sudden longing to see the west again.  He began to
think of the future, to want and to dream.

And he began to think about escape.

He studied the construction of the shacks.  They
were flimsy, easily taken apart.  The boards, lashed together, could form a
make-shift raft.  But there was no place to hide a raft and no rope to
lash the boards together.  He sighed.  Around and around, his thoughts swirled,
like the water that eddied in the center of the channel between the island and
the mainland.

It was cold that winter, cold and damp.  It rained,
day after day.  Pneumonia spread through the camp like wildfire.  Hank got
sick, and Sam nursed him.  He scrounged whiskey and sugar from the guards. 
Flynn searched the island until he found a willow.  He cut pieces of bark and
brewed tea from it.  He held the tin cup to Hank’s lips.

Hank spluttered.  “It’s bitter!”

“I know, Hank.  But it will bring your fever down. 
Now drink it up.”  Flynn spoke to Hank as gently as he would to a frightened
child.

Hank nodded and drank the infusion.

Flynn stood up.

Sam regarded him questioningly.  “Where did you
learn about willow bark tea?”

“I was a scout out west before the war.”

“Spent time with the Indians?”

Flynn looked away.  He nodded.

“Good.”

Startled, Flynn looked back at Sam.

Sam grinned at him.  “When the war’s over, I’m going
to start up a wagon train out of St. Joseph, Missouri.  I’m going to need a
good scout.”

Flynn smiled faintly.  “I’d like that.”

Sam nodded once.  “Then it’s settled.”

Flynn hesitated.  “Major, before the war...”  His
voice faded into silence.  He wasn’t ready to trust the Major with that
particular secret, not yet.

“It’s all right, son.  If you had a squaw, I wouldn’t
hold it against you.”

Flynn winced at Sam’s gentle touch.

Sam sighed and walked away, muttering.  “Just like
gentling a horse.”

For the first time since his arrest, Flynn laughed
softly.

Hank’s fever went down, and in a few days, he
stopped coughing.

Sam smiled at Flynn.  “Thank you.  Hank means a lot
to me.”  He sobered.  “That bullet was meant for me.  Hank threw me to the
ground, and the bullet hit him instead.”

Flynn nodded without speaking.  He knew all about
guilt.

Together, Flynn and Ben began to build the raft. 
They hid it under the shack where Sam and his men slept.  Flynn knew they
should caulk it with pitch, but he couldn’t figure out a way to make pitch
without being caught.

But as the days lengthened, he began to hope in
earnest.

Then, one night, the guards came.  They took the
raft and burned it while Sam, Ben, Hank and Flynn watched.

Brooks stood grinning, just outside the firelight.

Flynn stared at him until his grin faded, and he
backed away into the shadows.  Flynn looked back at the raft, burning into ash,
like all his hopes and dreams.  He turned and walked away.  He stood at the
edge of the island and stared at the lights in Richmond.  Then, he turned and
went back to the camp.  The raft had burned itself out.  Hank sat staring at
the ashes.

Flynn forced himself to smile.  He knelt beside the
older man.  “It’s all right, Hank.  We’ll get out of here someday.”

Hope lit up Hank’s grizzled face.  “Honest?”

Flynn nodded.  “Honest.  Now, get some sleep.”